


The Dunderheaded League

by Book7BrokeMyBrain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossover, Depression, M/M, excessive use of tea as social grease, shameless nods to other fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:11:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Book7BrokeMyBrain/pseuds/Book7BrokeMyBrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something odd is afoot at Weasleys Wizard Wheezes, so Harry seeks help from a consulting detective he read about in the papers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dunderheaded League

**Author's Note:**

> Written for The Snape-Potter First Time for Everything Fest, September 2013
> 
> Beta'd by [](http://asnowyowl.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**asnowyowl**](http://asnowyowl.dreamwidth.org/) and [](http://badgerlady.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**badgerlady**](http://badgerlady.dreamwidth.org/). Thank you! Any remaining errors are my own. The case is based on [The Adventure of The Red-Headed League](http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/RedHead.shtml) by Arthur Conan Doyle (in case that wasn't painfully obvious).

 

 

  
** The Dunderheaded League **  


 

 **From the Journal of Severus Snape:**

February 11, 2013

 

My financial situation continues to worsen.

George Weasley has taken a strange turn in his chronic depression, an even stranger turn than usual. He is distracted in his business, uninspired, and literally absent from the premises, not merely figuratively. I have a vested interest in his continued potions supply, in his need for my research and development. Potter may be a silent partner in the failing business, but he is independently wealthy and does not feel the same urgency. I have discussed it repeatedly with the boy, and he says he has found a resource which may help the situation. He will not tell me where this information came from, so I must assume the research emanates from the dark shelves of the Black family library or the rooms of the house itself. And he's correct: I'd rather not accept help from the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.

We go tomorrow. To where, I do not know.

 

* * *

  
 **From the Blog of John H. Watson. Set to Private – My eyes only**

March 3, 2013

 

 _(None of this is for publication. Seriously, Sherlock, if you've broken into my blog again, NONE of this is for the general public. It can never be posted. This is not like the case where I had to dress like a rentboy and stand on the corner all night. That was embarrassing and I told you I never wanted it published to the blog, but you did it anyway. Ha bloody ha. You know this is a matter of national security, and you will answer to your brother if any of this gets out._

 _So much for the boilerplate scolding.)_

 

The Dunderheaded League

Mycroft was sat in the flat when the doorbell buzzed on the afternoon of February the twelfth. He and Sherlock recognized it immediately as the buzz of a client. So did I, but could I ever get a word in with those two going at it constantly? Of course not. My cleverness continues to go unrecognized.

And, likewise, would Sherlock ever consider opening the front door to a client? No. That's up to me: his cook, personal charwola, and lackey.

So I did. I opened the door to a young man. Handsome, messy black hair, spectacles hiding startling green eyes, shorter than myself, even, if not by much.

Then I noticed the taller gent behind him. Rather the opposite of the lively younger man, he was pinched, lanky, with a hooked nose and black hair much too long and loose to be fashionable. He met my eyes with a piercing, dark gaze that stunned me to silence for a moment. He was dressed in an almost Edwardian cut that would have better suited the environs back when the neighborhood was built. As it was, he looked like he was headed to Comic Con or a Steampunk convention. The younger man didn't share his sartorial tastes, and was dressed in a peacoat and jeans.

I came back to myself after too long a lapse.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“Doctor Watson?” The younger man had a pleasant, reedy voice. Fairly local accent. “I recognize you from your blog photo. I'm Harry Potter. This,” he turned and gestured, “is Severus Snape. We'd like to talk to you and Mr. Holmes about a... situation.”

“Of course. Please come up.”

I led them up the seventeen steps and through the lounge entrance. We filled that side of the room as Sherlock and Mycroft stood to greet the strangers. An alien expression of recognition and anticipation crossed Mycroft's face. Sherlock turned to his brother in annoyance.

“It's time you left. Apparently, I have business to conduct.”

“I think I had better stay, actually. I _am_ going to stay.” He remained standing with a mysterious smile on his lips.

“What? No!” Sherlock exclaimed tightly. His brother rarely overstayed a welcome, despite being barely welcomed in the first place.

“Brother, allow me to make the introductions. It would be my honor.” He stepped forward. “Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson, this is Severus Snape,” he shook the man's hand gravely, then moved to the other, “and this is Harry Potter.”

Sherlock frowned slightly. “You know them already, then? Did you send them here?”

“I know them by reputation only. Mycroft Holmes. Very glad to meet you both. Thank you for your service.” He bowed his head slightly. Mycroft never bows to anyone, far as I've seen. That alone gave me goosebumps and set my nerves on edge. We were in the presence of something bigger than Sherlock and I were used to dealing with, the exception being a single trip to Buckingham Palace, perhaps.

By the same token, Snape looked rather wrong-footed at being recognized. “Potter,” he whispered, “you said they were Muggles.” I determined later that he had, in fact, said 'Muggles', although I had never heard the expression before.

“They are, Severus,” Potter replied softly, “But they have a connection --”

“To the Black family, yes,” Mycroft supplied.

“So you know?” Potter asked.

“Distant cousins,” Mycroft affirmed. “Sirius was your godfather, I believe. We have many and various cousins, none that we know well, I'm afraid.”

“More like we keep apart, for sanity's sake,” Sherlock murmured.

“Yes. Like poor Bernard. Bit of a lush, truth be told. Smart as a whip when he's sober,” Mycroft said to me, for some reason.

“Or our cousin Val. Poor thing. Takes directly after Mycroft in her looks. Married a toad of a man up north. Just as well she stays there.” Sherlock shuddered.

“Let us not forget the Black-Adder branch of the family,” Mycroft added proudly.

“Oh, for god's sake, will you let that go? It was five hundred years ago!” Sherlock spat.

“But Edmund was a _king_. We are directly related to royalty.”

“Indirectly. And he was king for thirty seconds. Then he died like the miserable idiot he was. Oh,” Sherlock cocked his head at his brother, “now I see the resemblance. Well done, you.” He rolled his eyes hard enough to pop them out of his head.

Mycroft's moue passed after a moment and he recollected himself. “I am acquainted with the Minister in my small capacity within the British government. Both Ministers, in fact. And of course, Sherlock has been aware of both sides of things since he was young. Fortunately, the worlds rarely collide, the Brockdale Bridge incident aside.”

I frowned. “Wait. What?” Were these men anti-terrorists?

Potter stepped to the center of the room. “Mr. Holmes, I saw your family name on a tapestry in my house, and got to thinking. I thought I recognized it from the papers. I Googled you. I was right. I was hoping you could help us.”

Snape pulled him back by the arm. “These are Black Squibs?”

“Yes, Mr. Snape,” Mycroft said. “The Black family is as prominent in the Magical world as it is in the Mundane.”

“Now, hold on a minute.” I held up a finger. “Are we talking about magic-magic or illusion-magic? Like Houdini stuff? I hope you aren't trying to tell me magic-magic is real. That's -- that's just ridiculous.” I looked around the room at the men standing mute, feeling like the butt of a joke. “Sherlock?”

Potter pulled a wand out of nowhere and held it up for me to see. He pointed it at the dying fire across the room and it jumped to life, higher than the logs should have allowed. Then he pointed it at my armchair, and it began to hover above the floor.

“It's just another part of nature, Dr. Watson. Some of us can control it. That's all.” Potter set my chair back down gently.

Sherlock stepped close to me. He gently grasped me by my arms, concern filling his features. “John, you look positively ashen. I think some tea is in order.” I nodded dumbly. “So, go make us some, and the rest of us will sit down.” He gave me a small shove toward the kitchen, then ushered our clients to the sofa and chairs.

My head was buzzing a bit, but I took refuge in the ritual of the kettle and cups.

When I returned with the tray, the sitting room had been – magically – rearranged to accommodate us all. I set it down on the coffee table and slumped on the end of the couch next to Potter and Snape.

“I could do you a Cheering Charm if you need one, Doctor. They feel really nice.” Potter smiled at me.

“Um, no. Thanks. Maybe another time.”

Potter shrugged as Mycroft played mother and filled the teacups. That was always good for a smirk between Sherlock and me, but his attention soon turned to our clients.

“Mr. Potter, tell me what brings you to Baker Street.”

Potter finished sipping his tea. “Right. Well. Severus and I are partners in a joke shop.” I couldn't imagine Snape even laughing, much less in the gag business. Not a more unlikely man. “The founder, George, well, he lost his twin in the war – ” I made a sympathetic noise. They all turned to me. “Not your war, Doctor. A different one. But still....”

“Focus, Potter. Allow me.” Snape set his cup down as Potter yielded. “George Weasley did not take his brother's death well. Fifteen years on and the business is failing. I -- Potter and I -- are propping up what used to be a thriving venture fueled by two, frankly, genius inventors and entrepreneurs.”

“Yes, very sad, but what is the issue now? What brings you here _today?_ ”

I sighed at his callousness, almost grateful for how normal and grounding it felt in the face of learning that magic was a _thing_ , apparently.

“Weasley has begun to disappear from the shop. He won't say where he goes, or why. The shop girl reports that he disappears for hours every afternoon, and the next morning there will be a little extra gold in the till. Not enough to help matters, but enough to be curious.

“Also, in the interest of precision,” he got approving nods from Mycroft and Sherlock, “I am not a vested partner. I am a contractor. Research and development. Presently, my livelihood is dwindling to a distressingly low level due to Weasley's utter lack of creativity and uninterest in his line.”

“Severus,” Potter said, laying a hand on the man's arm, “you should have said. You know I'm willing–”

“I will not take your charity, Potter.” He slid his arm gently from under Potter's grip.

“And yet, Mr. Snape,” Sherlock interjected, “you have chosen to remain a rat on a sinking ship. Why is that, do you suppose?” He stared at Potter's curled, empty hand lying against his thigh. “Surely, a clearly intelligent man such as yourself could find other venues for your talents.”

Snape shot him an evil look. “My reasons are my own.” He settled back against the sofa.

Potter picked up the thread “In any case, we can't let the shop die. It's George's livelihood, his life. And it was too important during the war; they developed many items used in the fight. It's not just Puking Pastilles and Headless Hats. Fred 'n George were subversives of the best kind. Severus has been working for years on adjunct potions that come from the original gags. He's going to invent something remarkable soon, something life-changing, I'm sure. That would be great, but mostly, we want to help our friend. We are worried. Severus thinks someone, somehow, is taking advantage of his condition.”

“Because where else is that money coming from,” I stated.

“Exactly.” Potter gestured at me. “If someone was stealing from him or the shop, that's one thing, but he's bringing in a weirdly small amount of gold every day he leaves. Makes no sense.”

“I've been known to fancy a flutter now and then,” I said. “Could Weasley be gambling?”

“Not likely. He and Fred used to make book, back in the day, but George hasn't had that in him for a while. I don't see him interested enough. And, besides, he'd probably lose occasionally, wouldn't he? Yet there's always that extra in the till.” He wrung his hands and sighed.

We all sat silently, waiting for Sherlock to say something - a question, anything. He sat slouched in his chair with his fingers tented against his mouth, ignoring us all. Potter seemed to expect this, and, if he'd really read my blog, then it would be no surprise to see the detective slip away into his own world. Only Snape seemed impatient.

“Biscuit?” I offered a plate from the tray. Snape took the wafer. He bit it with a mouthful of crooked teeth, showering his black clothes with crumbs. I immediately wondered, if magic really existed, why he had crooked teeth and Potter wore glasses. Then, I watched as the crumbs slid off his chest and lap, like drops of rain down a window pane. Snape caught me looking.

“Repellant charm.”

“Repellant charm,” I mumbled. “Naturally.” I took a deep draught from my cup.

“All right, John?” Mycroft asked with quiet concern. He picked up the pot and freshened our cups with the dregs.

“Should I make another pot?” I offered automatically. “Or can you just... whip up another?”

“Oh, no,” Potter said. “Magicked tea is awful.”

“Is it?” I asked weakly.

“Quite,” Snape answered. He and Potter seemed to share a moment of mutual amusement. “Magic cannot do everything, Dr. Watson. It has its limitations, being wielded by humans as it is. And we are all English here, are we not? We ought to maintain certain standards, especially with tea.”

Potter found that funny and chuckled, clearly in awe of the man. Clearly. I flushed with embarrassment to imagine I might ever have had that look upon my face when thinking of Sherlock. I probably had, though.

“I'll start another.” I took the tray back to the kitchen and began the process again.

I stood with my back to the sitting room, waiting for the kettle, leaves already spooned into the pot. I was startled when Potter turned up next to me.

“Can I help?”

“No, it's fine. I've got it.” I smiled wanly.

“Are you sure you're all right?”

“Um, surprisingly, I am. Having your best friend come back from the dead after seeing him... well, let's just say nothing shocks me anymore.”

“I know how you feel, a bit,” Potter agreed.

“Do you?” The kettle clicked and I filled the pot.

“Oh, right. I have the advantage. I read about his return in the papers and then sought out your blogs, so I know a lot about you already.

“I found out about magic when I turned eleven. When I got my letter from school.” He nodded to himself. “I can't tell you how happy I was. It's nothing to be afraid of, Doctor, not really. Some magic is terrifying, but most is harmless. No more awful than how Muggles get killed in car accidents every day. I mean, it's people doing typical, daily activities, just with the help of magic. I still do loads of things without it, you know.”

“Like make tea?” I smiled at him.

“Precisely.” He beamed at me.

“I get the feeling that's not the only way you relate to my situation?”

His smile flagged. “Right.” Potter turned inward again, nodding along with the litany of facts he conveyed, like the beats of a song. “Severus was my professor. There was this Dark wizard. There were two wars. Severus was very important, a double agent. I watched him die. I didn't understand until afterward just how much – ” He took a deep breath. He quirked a smile. “Hm. He didn't really die. Obviously. He was in hiding for a few years. Anyway, I'm proud just to be working with him, you know?”

“Yes. I do.” I loaded up the tray again. “And it's John. And call him Sherlock, none of this ‘Mr. Holmes’ business. He's already got the big head, and you're not much younger than he is, are you?”

“Suppose not. Okay, and call me Harry.”

“Will do.”

“Are you done with your little confabulation in the kitchen, then?” Sherlock called suddenly.

“ _Us?_ We were waiting for you to emerge from your Mind Palace.” I set down the tray and Mycroft took over, pouring another round.

“I have three theories. Four. And since neither of you has spoken to Weasley directly – ”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“John, you are getting slow. There's a giant hole in the story, which would have been filled, and information eagerly offered, if either of these men had actually extracted it from the subject in question with a simple query. _Exempli gratia:_ 'Where do you go when you go out, George?' See?”

Potter and Snape looked sheepish. Well, Potter looked sheepish; Snape just looked away.

Potter leaned forward. “Neither of us could bring ourselves to... intrude, I suppose. He's very private, very withdrawn. He feels awful all the time, barely speaks to us. He's so broken. It hardly felt like it was any of my business what he does. And Severus is worse than George.” He got a raised brow for that. “You know what I mean. You're very private and loath to talk about feelings with anyone. You certainly aren't going to pry into anyone else's life lest someone try to do the same to you!”

Snape cleared his throat. “Fair enough,” he conceded.

“Why didn't you simply follow him, track him? I'm sure magic could do that even better than my brother's vast array of CCTV cameras.”

“Weasley could cover his tracks easily enough,” Snape explained. “And, with such power at our disposal, such potential invasion of privacy, we have certain customs to maintain the social niceties. One could, for example, Apparate directly into a friend's parlor, but we don't. We appear at the end of their walkway or drive, and knock. It's only polite.”

Potter nodded. “Unless you are an Auror – a police officer, that is – or a mum watching a toddler, you don't put trackers on people.”

“I need more data!” Sherlock exclaimed, and jumped to his feet. “Take me to see George Weasley!” He strode the few steps to his coat, and had it swirled about his shoulders before Potter could even reply.

“Uh, he won't be there now. He'll be out. You know....”

“Yes, yes, yes. Regardless, take John and me to his store. I assume he lives above it?”

“Yes. But – ”

“But nothing. As partner, you have every right to show me the premises, including his private quarters.”

“Actually, I don't think I do.”

“But you'll do it anyway. For the safety of your friend.”

“Yeah. All right. I will. Let's go.”

“How far is it?” I asked, gathering up my coat and Potter's. I had no idea where we might be going in the wide world now that magic was in play.

“Charing Cross Road,” Potter answered. “Bit too far to walk it, but Severus and I will Apparate the four of us, instead. Much quicker. Less chance of being seen.”

“I'm afraid to ask,” I said, quaking at the look of wide-eyed glee on Sherlock's face. “Oh, god, I'm going to hate this, aren't I?”

“Yes,” Snape replied dourly. “You will most likely vomit. At least the first time.”

“Mycroft, see yourself out,” Sherlock snapped, literally bouncing with impatience.

“Of course. Gentlemen, it was an honor to meet you – ”

“Come _on!_ Let's go.”

Potter came over and offered his arm. Snape did the same for Sherlock. They both had wands in hand.

“Severus, I'll land on Charing Cross, you take the other side of the corner, all right?” To me Potter said, “Take a deep breath, John. Relax. It'll be over in a moment.”

“Ha. That's just what I tell patients before a prostate ex – ”

I bellowed as I was pulled through what must have been a wormhole. My entire existence stretched to a thread which snapped back horrifyingly, with a crack like thunder that was probably only in my head. My feet found the pavement with a slight drop, and my head spun.

“Deep breath, John! There you go! Great!”

Potter was holding me up by my elbow as I teetered in place. At least Sherlock fared no better, standing like a new-foaled colt, feet spread, arms flailing, wearing his widest genuine smile, muttering 'brilliant'. Neither of us lost our tea. We shook ourselves and tried to reorient.

“How do you feel, John?” Potter asked.

“'Like butter spread across too much bread.'”

Potter laughed at that, understanding. “Sorry. It's best to do it fast the first time, like ripping off a plaster.”

We stood before Charing Cross Books. I knew immediately where we were. The few pedestrians passed us by without notice as if we weren't standing there. Potter gestured for us to cross the road but I couldn't make out where he wanted us to go.

“No! We cannot 'go again'! Get off!” Snape shook Sherlock's grip from his upper arm. I took pity on the man and pulled Sherlock away.

“John! That was magic! I've never felt magic before! We Apparated, John! It was brilliant! What a sensation!”

I rarely saw my friend so maniacally happy about anything not having to do with serial killers or cocaine. It was concerning.

“Is this a typical reaction to Apparating?”

“Hardly. I'd say Mr. Holmes is unique, in my experience.”

“Snape! You're poor,” Sherlock observed. “I'll pay you to Apparate me around London, like, like, like a chauffeur.”

“Sherlock!” I shouted. “I'm so sorry, Mr. Snape. Sherlock's lack of tact is infamous.”

Snape said nothing, but a glint in his eye told me he wasn't discounting the offer out of hand.

“Right,” Potter said, rather astonished. “Head to the pub, just there.”

“What pub?” I asked.

Snape shook his head. “They're Muggles, remember? Just follow me through.” He stepped off the curb and across the street, gliding deftly through what finally appeared to be an ancient wooden door that had just previously seemed to be a hazy bit of scenery along the road.

The publican behind the bar shot Snape the stink-eye. Sherlock and I were, apparently, guilty by association, but when he got a glimpse of Harry Potter, well. His temperament changed completely.

“Mr. Potter! What can I getcha today?”

“Nothing, thanks, Tom. Just passing through.” He smiled tightly and pressed on through the small room full of tables peppered with people.

We made our way out the back to a small courtyard bounded by a brick wall. Snape raised his wand, tapped a brick, and the wall shifted, reshaped itself, leaving an entrance to a street beyond.

“Diagon Alley. Stay close. Try not to stare. We have several streets to travel before we get to the shop.”

Words are inadequate to describe the surreality of discovering another culture, an entire population that shared London with me, hidden. I admit my mouth hung open at times at the weird shops full of odd stock that no average human would think to need, like owls. And flying brooms. Potions ingredients at the apothecary. Robe stores. Practically everyone was wearing robes down to the ground, or variations thereof. Personally, I felt the dearth of extra yardage in my clothing, feeling rather under-dressed. At least Sherlock had his coat. Potter and I were dressed alike, but no one looked at him sideways. Quite the opposite.

Potter dodged many an admirer, slipping past with a smile and a wave. He kept his head down as much as possible.

Snape seemed to be having the opposite problem, but at least he spearheaded a path for us.

We walked the street, past an amalgam of buildings of various ages: Edwardian, Victorian, Georgian, back to Elizabethan. Concentrating as I was on taking it all in while not turning a foot on the cobblestones, I missed my chance to watch Sherlock's initial reaction. I found him pressed longingly against a bookstore window.

“Oh, John. Just imagine.”

I leaned in next to him. “Not our world, Sherlock. Don't get too attached. I don't imagine any of the tomes in there would be useful to people like us. Without magic.”

“I still want to read it all.”

“I know.” I patted his arm. “Come on. Remember why we've come.”

Sherlock sighed, and pulled himself away. Potter was waiting near us.

“If you're curious, I'll send you a copy of A History of Magic, and a good history of the Voldemort wars. It'll arrive by owl tonight, so don't be startled, and leave your kitchen window open. And here,” he shoved his arm all the way down into an impossibly deep front pocket in his jeans, rummaging around next to what would be his knee, if his arm had actually gone down the inside. “Give it this. Owl treat.” He handed me a hard lump of a biscuit. It stank a bit. “Yeah, I think it's compressed mouse. I never wanted to know, frankly.”

I chuckled and stuck the treat in my coat pocket. “Ta. I'll look forward to it. And you know Sherlock will tear through those.”

“He's like my friend Hermione, isn't he? She actually referred to A History of Magic as 'a bit of light reading' once. That will be funnier when you see the size of the book.”

“I'm sure.”

“Gentlemen?” Snape waited some steps away, obviously uneasy in the flow of foot traffic. We regrouped and continued.

“Aren't you cold?” I asked Snape, finally noting that he wasn't wearing a cloak or coat, despite his suit being rather heavy.

“Warming charm.”

“Of course.”

We came to a corner. As we got closer, I could see the fantastical storefront of what had to be the joke shop. It was very... orange. And animated. It seemed to suffer subtly from neglect: perhaps the mechanisms weren't as smooth as they might have been when new, and the paint could have used a touch-up. Still, if I wasn't careful, I'd find myself pressed up against the window; it was my turn to be entranced.

We filed in through an old door with a lovely little bell on it. It made me nostalgic for bygone times.

The place was full of old gags and product that hadn't sold. It wasn't dusty, the shop girl had done her duty there, but you know how, when you go to the shops to get a can of beans, and the cans are stocked full, but the ones in the back look like they've been dented and the label is a bit foxed, and you just know those cans have been sitting there far longer than the shiny ones in front? Yeah, most of the stock looked like that old can of beans on the shelf that you deliberately bypass. Bit not good. I was starting to appreciate the full depth of the problem.

The shop was devoid of customers. Granted, it was still afternoon, and perhaps the kids and adults would come in after school and work, but then again, there were plenty of people out on the street. They just weren't in here.

“Love potions!” I turned to see Sherlock hovering around a multi-tiered display of pretty little bottles, fingers fluttering as if they didn't know where to land first. “Do these actually work? Are they _legal?_ Here, John, drink this.”

“Ha, nooo.”

“Why not?”

“Barely legal,” Snape put in, plucking the bottle from Sherlock's fingers and putting it back on display.

“Because I don't know what it will do, and because we have work to do.”

“But I want you to drink it! I want to see.”

“See what, precisely?” I asked, testily now. “See me act foolish over you? I think I do that often enough, don't you?” I crossed my arms.

There were a few beats of silence over our group. Potter finally broke it.

“That's nothing to fool with, Sherlock. My best mate got badly dosed once, at school. It was meant for me.”

“Was it?” Sherlock said. “What happened to him?”

“He got the antidote. And then he almost died.” I gasped. “Oh, but that was from the poison, not the love philtre. But still, they lead you into trouble.”

We walked away from the display. I noted with trepidation that there were a few empty spots after Sherlock had no doubt palmed some bottles. I hoped for experimentation in an Erlenmeyer flask and not my coffee cup. I made a note to search his coat when we got back home.

“Oh my god. Is that a _dragon?_ ” I trotted over to a glass chestnut roaster, boggling.

“Yes! Isn't he cute?” Potter joined me, waggling his fingers at the animal. “He's a teacup firedrake. They bred most of the mean out of them. He's a sweetie. Hey, Smaug! Hey, boy.” Harry dumped a load of chestnuts into the basket. I leapt back as the firedrake shot a tight blast of flame at the nuts, making them jump as they toasted. The smell of roasted nuts wafted out immediately. “Good boy.”

“That's fantastic! You named him Smaug?” I cocked a doubtful eyebrow at the thought.

“Yeah, well, you kind of have to if you have a firedrake. If you saw him in his crate, hunkering down into his pile of galleons at the end of the day, you'd understand.” Potter yanked a paper cone from a dispenser and emptied the hopper into it. He handed it to me. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you.” They were too hot to touch. It hit me then. I covered my eyes with my hand. “There are dragons. In the world. Dragons. And magic. Oh my god.”

“John?” Sherlock bent down and peered into the roaster. “Is that a dragon? So small.” He and the dragon stared at each other for a moment, then he stood up. “John. Come on. Let's go see Weasley's rooms.”

“I'll just take it as read that there are all sorts of bizarre jokes and products and creatures in this shop. Yes. I think that's the best way to get through this in a timely manner.” No one was listening. I followed Sherlock, who had bounded halfway up the central stairway to the upper floors. Potter climbed behind me.

We entered a suite of attic rooms at the top: high-ceilinged, comfortable, worn, dark. I gravitated to the mantelpiece, where some photographs were displayed. There were several shots of the twins, arms around each other, at various functions: their Grand Opening, a wedding, at school, at some sort of huge sporting event. And, oh, by the way, the photos moved. Naturally.

I set the chestnuts down on the mantel. I picked up the largest frame, with the twins no more than twenty years old, holding a giant pair of shears for the ribbon cutting. The photo repeated that happy moment as they cut it and looked at each other, smiling widely, waving with one hand each, like bookends.

They were redheads. Many of the folks in the photos were ginger – it must have been their family. A veritable league of redheads. Suddenly the theme of orange throughout the place made sense.

I wandered over to the bedroom door and peered in. There were two beds, two dressers, two armoires. Two chairs near the fire. Two sets of towels in the bath. Two of everything, and only one used.

The poor man.

Potter waited at the fireplace, peeling a chestnut, chucking the shell into the grate. I joined him. Dragon-toasted chestnuts are delicious, I have to say. I indicated the picture.

“They started young?”

“Mmm. Yes. They left school to start this place. Went gangbusters for a while. Then....”

“The one died.”

“Fred, yes. He was the dominant one, you know? Fred would start a sentence, George would finish it. He hasn't had anyone to start his sentences in a long time.”

I pointed at the photos with a knuckle as I peeled another nut. “Is the whole family ginger?”

Potter smiled and nodded. He named everyone, told me a bit of their stories. “That's Ginny. The youngest. The only girl. I was supposed to marry her.”

Well. “What changed?”

He looked uncertain how much to tell me. “We were kids. She was my best friend's little sister. You know.” My expression told him that I did not know. “I was kind of... corralled in that direction.”

“Ah.”

“Were you ever married?” he asked in a small voice.

“Ah. I was – I almost – ”

“Made a mistake? I almost did, too.”

“I was going to say 'got married'.”

“Oh, sorry. Well, mine would have been a mistake. Not that I didn't love Ginny, but it took Severus coming back to force a reality check.”

“How do you mean?” I was getting a sick flutter in my gut.

“I realized I didn't have all the facts. I was making a bad decision based on lack of facts. And it was too fast. If I had known that Severus was alive, I'd have never – ” He looked around guiltily.

“You love him, don't you?” He nodded and nibbled another nut. “What if he never comes around? I mean, is he even, you know, that way?”

“Pretty sure. Besides, I don't know if it has to do with being magical and close to nature and all, but wizards seem to be rather flexible. So my chances are decent. It's just Severus. He's obstinate when it comes to... everything.” Potter blushed. “I'm so sorry, John. I'm spilling my guts to you. You don't even know me. I'm used to the whole world knowing all my secrets. And I've read everything you and Sherlock have written on your blogs. I supposed it's created a sense of false intimacy. Stupid. Sorry.”

“No, no. Not at all. I have that kind of a face, it seems. People tell me everything.” I gave him a disarming smile, the kind that gets witnesses to open up after Sherlock has insulted them into reticence. I decided to throw him a bone. “Come to think of it, it would have been a mistake. For me to get married. You know Sherlock has managed to drive off every girlfriend I ever had when we were working together? A wife would have been worse. He would have been insufferable.”

Potter smiled slyly. “You're looking at it from Sherlock's side, not your wife's. That's not a good start.”

“No.” My smile faded to rueful. “Our work is encompassing, addictive. And Sherlock is unique. I only ever considered a marriage because I didn't have all the facts, like you said. Sherlock was alive. As long as Sherlock is in the picture, I'm going to choose him and the work. Foolish, maybe.”

Potter looked at the floor. “Not if you're happy. Then you can stand anything.”

I grabbed Potter playfully by the back of the neck and shook him. “Well, I hope you date. Don't be lonely. You're too young.”

“I used to, a little. I haven't felt like it in a long time.” Potter rubbed his neck and adjusted his glasses, and I felt like an ass, and it wasn't awkward _at all_.

That sick flutter was acting up again. “Yeah.” I looked around. “Where's Sherlock got to?” I brushed off my hands and scanned the rooms. A ladder hung from a hatch in the bedroom ceiling.

“What's he want with the roof?”

I called up. “Sherlock?”

He bent his head over the hatch. “Potter, what's over there?”

“Over where?”

“Over _there._ ” He moved his pointing arm into view. “A street or so over. The buildings look different. Is it still the same high street?”

Potter oriented himself. “Oh! No, that's Knockturn Alley. The iffy part of the shopping district.”

Sherlock came down the ladder, refastening the hatch door above him, landing with a thump. “I'll need to see that next. But first, the basement.”

“Sure. Just be careful of the potions lab. Severus will literally hex your balls off if you spill anything.”

Sherlock was off down the stairs immediately.

By the time we got to the basement, Sherlock already had his face way too close to whatever was softly burbling in a large cauldron. I let it go. I was not his keeper, in fact. Sometimes natural consequences are the best teachers.

Sherlock skirted the perimeter of the basement workroom and stockroom examining the stone walls and everything within them. It was dark, windowless, smelled fairly rank. That may have been partially due to the dragon's crate in the corner. Sherlock swirled to a stop in the middle of the room and stomped his heel on the threadbare carpet.

“Trap door. Which leads to what?”

“Potions stores, mostly,” Harry supplied. “Need a look?”

He was flipping back the carpet in a moment, tugging at the ring set in the heavy wooden door. He grunted, and I stepped forward to help, before he shook his head and held me back with an upraised palm. “I always forget.” He pulled out his wand, murmured a word, and the door creaked up and away, falling gently to the other side. “Watch your step. We have valuable things down there. And, um, some of them might reach out and touch you, so don't be alarmed.” He cast another spell, which lit the space for us.

The sub-cellar was smaller and packed with storage jars and wooden coffers. Other than the highly remarkable stock, it was an unremarkable hole carved in the bedrock of London. I climbed out first, feeling claustrophobic.

“Was this room always here, or did you excavate it yourselves?” Sherlock asked as I gave him a hand up off the ladder.

“Severus and I dug it after the war. Once the Ministry taxes and embargoes fell in place.”

“And why was that necessary?”

“The political climate became rather isolationist. The Wizengamot were none too happy with other countries that provided asylum to those considered war criminals. They basically cut off our nose to spite our face in trade with them. Many of the ingredients we have here are either expensive or rare. Severus and I have made many trips abroad to collect them: plants, stones, earth, animal parts. You name it, we've found it and tucked it away here, if Severus wants it for his trials.”

“I assume there are draconian penalties associated with possessing these items?”

Harry rubbed his hair. “Technically, we collected them ourselves, so the law can't touch us. We never dealt with other nations directly, but that's a big technicality. I think mostly, if we were ever caught with some of these things, I'd get a pass because I'm The Boy Who Lived. I would expect the opposite if Severus were prosecuted, so I never want to find out.”

“And what has changed? Have there been any shifts in policy recently?”

“Well, yes. The last few years, our economy was hit just as hard as the rest of the world's. No one is doing well, not even the black markets. I guess clearer heads prevailed. There's a moratorium coming up on the fifteenth. Will last a week. No taxes, no tariffs, no embargo. Just free trade.”

“I see.” Sherlock's eyes focused on a plane far beyond the four walls. He suddenly snapped back into motion. “Come, John.”

He led the three of us out of the store and down the hill toward a side street. Getting affirmation from Potter that this was the way to Knockturn Alley, he skittered down the cobblestones in the afternoon gloom, until he slowed to a stop in front of a grey-looking shop. They were all grey and dark, but this one was particularly hinky somehow.

“Gah. Difficult to orient down here; the buildings are too crowded. Potter, do you know precisely where Weasley's shop is in relation to this spot?”

“Sure.” He pulled out his wand, laid it on his palm and said, “Point me.” It began to spin slowly, until it swung to a stop. Potter turned to face the final direction. “That way.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock peered in the grimy window. There wasn't much to see. “And who will be in the shop on the fourteenth?”

“George in the morning, then I expect he'll go out, like he does. Verity will close up. It's Valentine's Day, so Severus will work from home and I'll be barricaded in my house. To avoid the admirers. You know.” He shrugged.

“In our case it was the paparazzi, but yes. We get it.” I noticed Sherlock gazing into space again. Then he was off back to the shop.

We reentered the retail space. Sherlock found Snape hovering, arms crossed, behind a giggly group of young women considering the display of love potions, blissfully unaware of the chilling regard of Snape not a yard behind them.

“Snape,” Sherlock said, “I'm ready to go back.” He stuck out his elbow imperiously, impatient. I shook my head at his effrontery. An oily smile crept over Snape's face, however, and he gripped Sherlock's upper arm like a vise. He dragged him toward the door. “ _John?_ ” Sherlock looked back at me.

“I'm good to walk, thanks.” I waved after him as he was manhandled out the door and past the bow windows.

Beside me, Harry smiled fondly. “I love watching him do that. Dragged to the dungeons. Good times.”

 

* * *

  
 **From the Journal of Severus Snape:**

February 12, 2013

 

Lest I ever forget that Potter can and will continue to surprise me, I ought to note it here. He managed to find a Squib branch of the Black family, just as clever and obnoxiously posh as the rest of them. Physically, Holmes reminded me of Regulus, the best of that bunch. There ends the resemblance, however. Holmes was not forthcoming with his thoughts about our problem. Perhaps soon. He seems legitimately capable of solving our mystery, if anyone is.

And Potter surprised me in another way. He insists on continuing to paw me in public, in front of strangers. He must be mad, daring to catch the attention of the gossip rags that way. Idiot boy.

 

* * *

  
 **John Watson's Blog, continued:**

The next day, after lunch, Potter and Snape brought the man himself to our rooms.

I stood at the top of the stairs, hearing Mrs. Hudson open the door to our clients. Weasley followed his partners up, plodding heavily, step by step. They arrived in the sitting room where we sorted the coats. George stood there, stooped over, hands wringing the stripey knit hat he'd pulled off his head. He patted at his hair, looking down, looking for a place to sit. He took my armchair, folding into it like a marionette with its strings cut. His knees stuck up, his large hands grasped the ends of the armrests. He looked like a man defeated, and very self-conscious.

“I think,” I said, checking with Sherlock, “perhaps we should speak in private.”

Potter was quick on the uptake. “Come on, Severus. I'll buy you a plate of spag bol downstairs. Get some meat on those bones.” He tugged on Snape's hand, leading him back out, grabbing his peacoat off the hook with the other. The older man frowned and pulled his hand away, but followed just the same. I pushed the door closed, then joined Sherlock, sitting myself sideways on the back of his chair, the better to see Weasley's face.

“Would you like some tea, Mr. Weasley?” I asked.

“No. Thank you.”

I nodded, and reached for my pad and pen, prepared to take notes. “By the way, I'm John Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes, and we'd like to help you if we can.”

He looked up for the first time. Soulful brown eyes met ours, but he remained silent.

“We visited your shop yesterday, Sherlock and I. What a fantastic place. Really. You must be so proud.”

“Of course I am. But help me, how? I don't think you can turn my business around, or bring customers in the doors.”

I paused, trying to find a delicate way to put it to him, but Sherlock jumped into the silence.

“You've been nipping out every afternoon. Your partners find that odd.”

“Can't a man go out? None of their business, anyway.”

“Snape is suspicious. He thinks someone is taking advantage of your vulnerability.”

George pulled his hands back into his lap, taking up the torture of his cap again. “Yeah, he would be. Suspicious. Everything is suspicious to a man like that. I'm just --”

“Just what, Mr. Weasley?”

He sighed, scratched at the side of his head. His fingers played with the stump of a missing ear. “Just trying to do what I can for myself, for my shop, my people.”

“I think it's time you told us everything, Mr. Weasley. Time is of the essence, I believe, and lives may be in danger.”

He looked up, startled. “Lives?” He swallowed heavily. “I don't suppose I could get that tea, could I?”

I nodded, and headed for the kitchen to turn on the kettle. I rummaged in the cupboards and returned with a bottle and three glasses, which I placed on the coffee table.

“I thought this might call for....?” I said, splashing a dose into each tumbler.

“Ta,” Weasley said, downing it in one. I refilled. “Lives, you said? I don't see how it can be that bad. It's nothing, really.”

“It's my job to see. But tell me everything. Now. Leave out no detail.”

“Right. Look. I.... It's just.... I haven't been able, lately, to....” He set his face in his hand, looked up again. “Right. So a few weeks ago, I received an owl from out of nowhere. It told me that there was a hushed-up Ministry program out there funding war veterans, war injured, anyone hurt by the fight against Voldemort. The note said that it wasn't advertised, because there wasn't enough of the endowment to go around, not to everyone who deserved it, but if anyone did, they reckoned it was me. So all I had to do was go to this building – ”

“Who do you think sent it?” Sherlock asked.

“Dunno. I thought maybe it was my brother Percy. He's the kind of uptight Ministry worker who would think it an unfair advantage to provide inside information to a relative, but an anonymous letter would make that all right. He's so odd.” George shook his head. “Before you ask, it wasn't him. I checked. Don't know who sent it, but it was legitimate. I just went to this building every afternoon, showed myself to an office, copied out pages of whatever tome they'd left out for me, busywork, you know, and gold pieces would appear when I'd finished for the night. That's it. That's where I go. See? Nothing evil, just hush-hush because there's not enough for everyone, and Merlin, I wanted some for myself.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock leaned back with his fingers tented against his chin. “Was this letter sent before or after the moratorium was announced?”

George screwed up his face, trying to remember. “It was announced just before Severus's birthday, because I remember we talked about it at the pub over a celebratory pint on the night. You know, whether we ought to sell anything or keep it and use it for the stock. We decided to sell quite a few things, the rare ones that Harry and Severus could collect again. We could use the inflow of cash. That was January 9. I'm sure the letter arrived a week or so after that.”

Sherlock sprang from the chair, pacing. “Mr. Weasley, tomorrow you will go to your appointment as usual. Do not deviate one iota from the norm, and tell no one what you have heard here. I'm sure whatever is going to be perpetrated in your shop will be done on St. Valentine's Day, when all the owners will be avoiding the building. Perfect timing, perfect access once your employee closes up.”

“ _Perpetrated?_ What are you talking about?”

“It will come to nothing, Mr. Weasley, I assure you.” Sherlock dismissed his concerns with his usual tact and empathy. Which is to say none. “You are going to be robbed. Well, they are going to _try._ ”

“So the busywork? It's what? A ruse to get me away?” Weasley sat, incredulous. “I can't believe they got me so easily. I've been such a _rube._ ”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed.

I frowned. “You haven't been at your best, Mr. Weasley. Don't be too hard on yourself.”

George rallied. “But what about the wards? All the alarms? There's no way anyone is getting past those. Severus, Harry and I forged them.”

Reluctance tinged Sherlock's reply. “Not if your shopgirl is closing up, and knows all the passwords, and is in cahoots with the thieves.”

“ _Verity?_ No way. She's been with us since we opened! She's like family.”

“But she isn't, is she? Not really. And she's hurting just as much as the rest of your society. I'm sure a few pieces of gold in her palm, and some assurances that it will be a victimless crime, put her reservations aside.” Sherlock stopped in front of Weasley. “I am sorry, but it's the only theory that fits all the facts. John, how about that tea?”

* * *

  
We sent George off that afternoon with strict instructions to act normally with Verity the next day, to stay up in his rooms if need be, to keep from raising any suspicion if he couldn't keep the feelings of betrayal from his face. George assured us, with a hint of steel in his demeanor, that it wouldn't be a problem.

Convinced that nothing would begin until after the shop closed at seven, Sherlock had us meet before then at the flat. Standing in a circle in the middle of the sitting room, Potter, Snape, Sherlock and I went over the plan. I pulled my Sig from the small of my back, getting raised brows from the wizards as I checked the chamber and the safety, and tucked it back where it belonged.

Sherlock uttered a small gasp and turned for his room. We heard rummaging, then he strode from his room brandishing his riding crop and a smile. It was rather endearing, and I fought the grin blooming on my face. Ah, Sherlock.

We were Apparated to Potter's home (which is a story for another entry – a hidden house in the middle of London! Amazing), and then were subjected to yet another horribly uncomfortable mode of travel: The Floo System. Christ, I thought my head would never stop spinning. I left from Potter's kitchen and spilled out onto George's bedroom hearth.

Recovered, we all crept downstairs into the shop proper, finding it deserted, as expected. Snape confirmed that the perimeter wards were intact, but all alarms set on the basement levels had been left down. This supported Sherlock's theory of the expected crime.

Potter opened the trap door to the sub-cellar. Sherlock checked briefly within, finding it undisturbed as yet. He informed us that the robbers would in fact be coming through the wall from the direction of Knockturn Alley, and we had only to wait.

Waiting is not one of Sherlock's many talents. He fiddled. He paced. He touched _everything_. He swished his crop in the air, tucking it back under his arm, only to whip it out again, playing at fencing. Every time he circled the room, he stopped to chat quietly with the firedrake in his crate, squatting down in a pool of coat, poking at the bars. I fully expected the agitated creature to toast him. Instead I heard him murmuring at the dragon, and the creature seemed to be listening. I just shook my head and idly perused the shelves for a burn salve.

Still, we waited in near silence, with only the clinking of coins shifting under Smaug's feet as he paced his cage to break the quiet. Snape's black eyes glinted with barely contained annoyance as he tracked Sherlock's every fidget. Potter was the model of patience, occasionally pulling out his wand, polishing it, and sliding it back in his sleeve.

After an hour or so, we began to hear the sounds of crumbling rock and soft voices getting closer through the wall, just where Sherlock had predicted. We turned down most of the lamps and hid near the trapdoor. We had to hope the thieves would come up to us, as there was precious little room down in the cave to maneuver.

From my position lying on the floor at the head of the opening, I observed the far wall glow a dull red. There was a crumbling noise again, then the rock face glowed bright red and melted in great gobbets of softly spattering bedrock, leaving an oval hole. At least two male voices celebrated the breakthrough with hushed laughter. We all heard them.

I looked at Sherlock, and shimmied myself backward, flat to the floor, staying low. We all crouched with our weapons out. I silently released the safety on mine, keeping it pointed down.

“Watch! It's still hot!” one warned the other as he stepped out of the tunnel. “Oh, very nice. Very nice, indeed.”

“What was that?” hissed the second. Smaug trilled loudly, and shook his crate.

“Probably the dragon. She said he stays down here.”

“Right. We should take him, too. Get a pretty penny for that, and his little hoard of coins. Cash bonus.” He snickered even as Smaug screeched louder. “If it gives us trouble, remember, we can sell it for parts.”

The look of pure rage on Potter's face didn't bode well for the thieves.

“Where's Higgins with the baskets? All this is going. Let's go up and see what else.”

It all went to hell very quickly after that.

The two came up the ladder one after the other, wands drawn. I kept my pistol down, not wanting to fire in such a tight space where the chance of ricochet was great. Sherlock popped up next to me slashing down with his crop, while Potter and Snape called out spells. Only Sherlock landed his blow on the wrist of one man, who did not drop his wand. The thieves shot out jets of red light, which Snape warded off with a downward swish of his arm. Potter called out “Incarcerous!” but missed as the one ducked down behind a table.

This is where it got really sticky. As if in slow motion, I saw Sherlock raise his arm for another slash with the crop. The taller thief took easy aim at him. Potter and I saw this simultaneously, and we both raised our weapons. As long as I could hit him solidly in the torso, I wasn't afraid of a through-shot that might hit another of us. Potter, unfortunately, had the opposite idea. He cast Protego, forming a curving shield between us all and the thieves just as I fired. My bullet hit the inside of it with a sickening twang of energy and flew along the concavity. We all flinched, then rejoined the battle. Potter cried “Incarcerous!” and “Stupefy,” immobilizing the enemy.

We heard a flapping of leathery wings and a screech like a raptor. Suddenly, Smaug was out of his crate and attacking Higgins, who had arrived with the baskets. Tight gouts of flame lit his beard and hair, and the collar of his robes. Smaug tore at his face with his claws, rising up, only to set the man's front on fire. Higgins screamed and fell back down the ladder, beating at himself as Smaug chased him into the tunnel. We heard horrible shrieks getting fainter as the man escaped us.

“He won't get far,” Potter said. “The Aurors are waiting at the other end. Everyone all right?” He tied up the thief who had only been knocked out, and knocked out the other one to balance things up.

Sherlock stepped calmly over to the shorter prisoner, rolled him onto his stomach with his foot, and began to beat him soundly across the back with the riding crop. He landed a dozen vicious blows. I could hardly blame him.

He reached for my wrist, looked at my watch and said, “I need to check and see what bruises form in the next twenty minutes.” He blinked at my astonishment. “What? It's not like you'd let me beat you for science, would you?”

To be fair, I would not.

Potter laughed softly. His face fell as he looked over at Snape.

Snape was white, leaning against the soapstone table with one hand, as he peeled his other palm away from his chest. It was soaked with blood. He fell.

Potter cried out in dismay. “He's been shot!” I scurried over, applying pressure to the wound, checking his back for an exit. I found none.

Snape moaned. “Leave it to a Muggle to bring a gun to a wand fight,” he ground out. “You _dunderhead._ ”

“Aha! I knew it. You _are_ from the north. Manchester, most likely. I knew you were hiding working-class roots under that carefully cultivated facade of yours.”

“Sherlock! _Timing_ , you idiot.” I continued pressing the wound. “What do we do here? Is there a hospital? Potter!”

Potter was stricken. He'd fallen to his knees beside Snape's head, and was just staring. His shaking hand reached forward and stroked the man's hair from his forehead, over and over. “Severus, don't die. Don't die.”

Snape painfully coughed out pink foam. Not good. “It's hit a lung, at least. Potter! Hospital?”

Snape reached up and grasped the front of Potter's coat, pulling him close. Potter's face screwed up in grief. “Replenisher. Three vials. Go.” Potter jumped up and ran for a cupboard. To me he said, “St. Mungo's. Hospital. Make Potter call.” His arm fell slowly to the floor.

Potter poured three vials of liquid down Snape's throat, then made a large, silvery stag appear. He sent it cantering from the basement with a message for help. There wasn't much I could do but keep pressure and watch Potter crumble with fear. Snape was almost insensate, but Potter kept whispering to him, kissing his face, his eyes, his brow, his mouth, while petting the man's long hair. It was wrenching to see him take years of touches all at once in case he wouldn't have another chance.

My compartmentalizing skills failed me as memories of blood on the pavement outside of St. Bart's slammed me. I had managed one touch of Sherlock's wrist, failing to find a pulse, before I was torn from him, never to touch him again. Or so I'd thought at the time.

I looked up at Sherlock, just to be sure he was still there. I don't know what he perceived in my face, but I saw regret and concern for me on his. That would do.

There was a gentle trilling from the cave. Smaug crawled up the ladder, breathing heavily, obviously exhausted. He spotted Sherlock and flapped his wings a few times, enough to alight on his arm. Sherlock held him up warily, the most sensible thing he'd done all night.

“Hello there, dragon. Did you get that bad man who tried to steal your gold? Did you?” Sherlock burbled at the wee beastie, who happily hunkered down on his shoulder.

“You know you look like the weirdest pirate ever, right now.”

“I think he likes me.”

“We're not getting one.”

“I know.” Sherlock petted the delicate, scaly skin with the back of a finger.

“You were talking to him all night. Why were you talking to the dragon, Sherlock?”

“I had a theory.”

“Based on what? What could you _possibly_ know about dragons?”

“If an animal sleeps on a bed of gold, I have to assume they have a strong affinity for gold and will protect it. I just put a bug in his ear that some men were coming to take it. Then I unlatched his cage. He understood me perfectly. Obviously. Very intelligent creatures.”

“You _wound up_ a _dragon._ ” I shook my head fondly. “Of course you did.”

* * *

  
It was a couple of weeks before we saw Harry Potter again. He stopped by to catch us up on the final details of the case. The criminals were in prison, their storefront defaulted to Weasley's ownership as restitution, particularly seeing how there was now a secret tunnel connecting his shop to a rather dangerous part of the high street. Apparently, George was rather pleased by that, having had an acquaintance with secret passages in the past.

Snape was almost fully recovered. Seeing him lying on the stone floor that night, I hadn't held out too much hope for him, but, apparently, he had something to live for, if Harry's expression when he spoke of Snape was anything to go by. I wish them a happy life together.

Harry brought us both gifts from Weasley's mother. I got a hand-knitted jumper, bright blue with an orange 'J' on the front. Even I had to admit that it was a hideous jumper, but I'll keep it in reserve to annoy Sherlock when I need to drag out the big guns.

Sherlock got a stripey knit hat, the colors of which would have suited him nicely if he'd been ginger. As he is not, he placed it on the skull instead. It brings out the color in its eye sockets.

Harry also gave Sherlock one gold galleon from Smaug's hoard. It went into the drawer full of special souvenirs from his most meaningful cases.

The magical histories delivered that first night remain hidden in plain sight among Sherlock's most boringly esoteric science tomes. They had arrived shrunken, wrapped with a purple ribbon that said 'place on open surface and tug here'. I did so and the two books that started out as small as The Little Book of Calm expanded to cover half the kitchen table. I cut the ribbon in two and used it as a book marker. The spines may be charmed, because I can't read them unless I concentrate very hard.

Still, I enjoy having that concrete proof of magic sitting right there in the front room. Some days, I need it.

 

 

And here, Sherlock, is the real reason you will never post this case publicly: my admission, my epiphany. No one else needs to know this but you.

George Weasley's life was ruined when he lost his brother. He's been living a half life. Many people manage to get on with things after facing tragedy, some don't. I feel for him, I really do.

So what is my excuse, or Potter's? We both lost the ones we cared about, lost significant parts of our lives. The difference between Weasley and us is that we got second chances. So what did we do with those chances? We wasted them. Wasted so much time. Harry made his change, found his courage, so let me find mine.

Snape called me a dunderhead. Well, we are all four of us dunderheads for not seizing the lives that would have made us happy. Sherlock, I now understand that I'm never going to leave you. I am committing to live with you, work with you, care for you, for as long as we have in the face of such strange dangers as we have discovered this past month. You are my best friend and I love you, whatever that means. I admit I don't know half the time, but we'll figure it out. I'm all yours. I won't live a life without you.

There. I've written it down. Now, I will go and tell you to your face. You are getting a firm embrace whether you want one or not.

The End

 

 _(And Sherlock: I'm keeping the title. It needs a title, so just leave it.)_

 

* * *

  
 **From the Journal of Severus Snape:**

March 9, 2013

 

Wizarding Law is swift and its punishments harsh. The criminals have been dealt with, Verity among them, I am afraid. Their building has been deeded to George. He now owns not one, but _two_ properties in London. I have ideas for expansion of our production and research branch to that location. The new tunnel will be convenient. George seems... better following this adventure. A bit of his old fire has returned.

My wound has healed for the most part. I had never been shot before. Still, not as bad as the Cruciatus.

Potter never left my side in hospital. He caused quite a stir, as did the sight of the entire Weasley clan taking up vigil outside my room. The _Prophet_ had a field day. The worst of it came after that photo was released of Potter lifting my limp hand to his lips and pressing a fervent kiss there. Amazing the liberties supposedly moral people will take with the unconscious body of someone they purport to love. Still, the kneazle is out of the bag, now, and all for a chaste kiss to my hand. I am glad I missed most of the outrage while I lay unconscious.

I am grateful to be recovering at home, now. The paparazzi have gone. I overestimated the public's interest in The Chosen One's infatuation with an ugly old Death Eater.

I have to admit that lying on the floor of the shop, mortally wounded – again – with Potter kneeling over me – again – felt too much like fate kicking me in the arse. How many times must I almost die before I allow myself to live? The answer is two.

I have taken Potter to bed.

Again, lest I forget any detail of that night, I will memorialize it here. I will have a reminder for those future days after Potter has moved on, tired of me, when I can no longer entice him to stay.

Convalescing in my own home was a pleasant change from the hospital ward. Potter – Harry – a constant presence. I don't know how I would have kept him away, even if I had wanted him gone, which I didn't. Allowing him by my side after so many years of spurning his attentions afforded me some of the happiest moments of my life. Such simple needs met. To have a man I had grown to admire, then love, at my side daily, there in the house when I awoke, taking meals together, to allow him to touch me freely and to return the gestures.... I have no words.

He took to curling up next to me in my small bed, reading to me in the afternoons while I rested. I was moved, physically, by his nearness, his scent, but my pride dictated that I would not make such an advance while an invalid in a nightshirt, tucked in like a child. I accepted fairly chaste kisses from him. Harry seemed to understand I was not well enough for more, but I found our brief bussing sessions very comforting.

Soon enough, I was well and dressing properly, spending time in my sitting room. Harry still curled up next to me on the couch, this time listening to me read to him of an evening, his shaggy head resting on my thigh. I closed the cover on the end of A Tale of Two Cities, and looked down at Harry. His face was... _burning_ with desire, moved beyond control.

He surged up and took my mouth in such a kiss, seized the sides of my face, pressing us together until it hurt. I had never felt the like, and I admit that my passion spiked quickly. I pulled him up across my lap, the better to access his face and throat. I tipped him backward against the arm, climbing half across him. It was frantic. I can admit that there was only a brief fumbling of clothing amid the filthy snogging, some groping and then it was over for us both. It was delicious, but far too quick. I suppose that is to be expected.

Harry laughed sweetly at the state of us, which took the sting out of it. The relief I felt, the ache in my heart for him.... I knew at that moment that I was doomed.

I took his hand and led him up to my bedroom. We undressed each other. Harry seemed morbidly fascinated by my scars – fortunate, since I seem to be more scar than skin nowadays. I bore his gaze and distracted myself from that humiliation by feasting my eyes on him. At this age, he is at his most handsome: fully a man who will never lose that boyish quality. I touched him all over, then laid him back on the bed and started again. He recovered before I did, and I feasted on his turgid flesh, then turned him over so I could worship his beautiful bottom. I am proud to say I took him apart with my mouth and hands, leaving him gasping and speechless.

Some time later when I was ready, I had him again. I took him face to face. We were silent. Harry stared into my eyes, rapt. When I couldn't bear the scrutiny I would tear my gaze from his and look at his body instead. I watched us move, saw where we joined, watched my body claim him, over and over. I clutched him hard to me as I came, and I didn't let him go, didn't open my eyes, didn't slip out of him for as long as I could manage. Harry never asked me to move, to shift my weight. He never said a word, just held me back, face tucked against my throat.

It was the best moment of my life. I didn't want it to end.

Of course, I knew that would not be our only time together; Harry wasn't in this for a one-off. But I know it can't last. Beginning our relationship means inevitably ending it. I will savor every moment I have with Harry, until he moves on.

Now that I am well enough, Harry doesn't spend all of his time here in my house, which is natural. I find that I miss him, having known him in that way. I suppose I need to get back to work as a distraction, and to see more of the man, get back to our old lives, from before. There is certainly plenty of work to be done.

In any case, I am fatigued and I hear Harry coming in the front door. Time to lock up this journal and retire for the evening. I know I shall be back to revisit this entry again and again.

 

* * *

  
To: Hermione Granger

Sydney, Australia

March 9, 2013

 

Dear Hermione,

How is the sun at your parents' place? I hope you didn't get burned again. If you need more of Severus's sunblock let me know and I'll ship you some.

I can't wait till you get home. We had such excitement here. I ended up engaging that Holmes bloke I told you about. He really is brilliant. There is some good news and bad news attached to this story, that trouble at George's, but I'll tell you during a firecall. Nothing terrible. No one died. So don't worry.

Actually, Severus almost did die, but he's fine now. I'm sure you saw the headlines, so you know already.

I'm getting off the point of my letter. I'm finally with Severus! It took him almost dying again to let him make a move (or, technically, respond to one of mine), but we are so happy. I spend as much time as I can with him, and every night at his place.

Remember that ring I bought about ten years ago? The platinum band that you despaired I'd ever get to give him? Well, I just took it out of my vault and I'm giving it to him tonight. I'm asking him to move to Grimmauld Place with me, too. We'd have more room here, but he does have a dislike of the house, so I can't assume anything (the accessibility of the library might change his mind).

Anyway, wish me luck.

All my love to Ron and your folks,

 

Harry  


-The End-

  


**Author's Note:**

> Other characters and fandoms referenced include Bernard Black of 'Black Books' (Martin Freeman plays a doctor!), Val Denton of 'League of Gentlemen' (sexily and demurely portrayed by Mark Gatiss), Edmund Blackadder from 'Blackadder', a quote from Bilbo Baggins and a nod to Smaug from 'The Hobbit'.


End file.
